


Contact Comfort

by there_must_be_a_lock



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gratuitous Psychology References, Other, Sharing a Bed, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 04:01:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30032739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: How long has it been since anybody hugged you like this? It’s like the contact — the warmth of him — the pressure of his arms around your shoulders — the rise and fall of his chest under your cheek — is lifting some massive weight you never realized you were carrying. All you want in the entire world is to hold him tight, take the comfort while you can, but you know you should pull away.He hesitates for a second before releasing you, like maybe he doesn’t want to let go either.
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 49





	Contact Comfort

“One sec,” you call, wincing at how thick and nasal your voice sounds.

You wipe your cheeks hastily as you sit up. It’ll be obvious anyway, though; wouldn’t take a profiler to notice your tear tracks and blotchy face. 

It’s Spencer. Of course it is — because he’s the last person you want to see you like this, when you’re all snotty and puffy and gross. 

His eyes go wide and solemn when he sees your face, genuinely distressed. There’s that empathy again, the too-big heart that everyone seems to overlook in favor of his big brain. You love him for it. 

Well, you love him for a lot of things. 

“Hi,” he says quietly. “I was going to just ask if you were okay, but… I guess I don’t actually need to ask now.” 

You let out a watery little chuckle. “Guess not.” 

“You want some company?” He looks hopeful, almost, and then seems to catch himself, dropping his gaze with a shrug. “I understand if you just want your space, though.” 

If it was anyone else, you absolutely would _not_ want company right now. But it’s Spencer, so. You pretty much always want him around. 

“I was just about to turn on some shitty TV because it felt too quiet in here, honestly. Company would be really nice.” 

He gives you a quick twitch of a half-smile as he steps past you, and after you close the door, there’s a pause where you both stand there and look at each other, Spencer suddenly shy as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, in a thin unhappy voice. 

“Not really. Just… one of those days. One of those cases.” 

“Can I do anything to help?” 

You hesitate, because it seems like such an immature thing to say out loud, but you’re too tired to be anything other than honest.

“I could use a hug.” 

Spencer’s expression goes all soft and sweet, and your cheeks feel hot under the drying salt water as he steps closer. He wraps his arms around you, and you bury your face in his chest and try to inhale. Your exhale is a ragged little shudder, and you fist both hands in the back of Spencer’s cardigan as you cling to him, feeling raw and sensitive and so very young. 

He lets out a quiet, shaky sigh of his own, squeezing you tighter. 

How long has it been since anybody hugged you like this? It’s like the contact — the warmth of him — the pressure of his arms around your shoulders — the rise and fall of his chest under your cheek — is lifting some massive weight you never realized you were carrying. All you want in the entire world is to hold him tight, take the comfort while you can, but you know you should pull away. 

He hesitates for a second before releasing you, like maybe he doesn’t want to let go either. 

Then he’s stepping back, hands in his pockets, slightly pink-cheeked as he bounces on the balls of his feet and gives you one of his frog-faced not-quite-smiles. 

“You said something about shitty television?” he asks. “Or maybe we could watch some television that’s not actually shitty?” 

“That sounds perfect.”

Turns out Planet Earth is on, which is the rare overlap in your and Spencer’s tastes, and it’s not until you’re eagerly toeing off your shoes that you realize the bed is the only seating option. 

Spencer sits cross-legged, with his elbows on his knees and his chin propped on his fists, and he stays as close to the edge of the bed as physically possible. You lean back against the headboard and hug your knees to your chest, feeling the need to hunch over, like you could physically protect your heart. 

Then again, it’s much too late for that. You knew your heart was in trouble the moment you met Spencer. 

Today, especially, you already feel vulnerable, like all your carefully-constructed walls cracked the second you let yourself cry, and now you’re just ripped-open and bare. You need a good night’s sleep and a long, hot shower before you’ll be able to go about your life as a professional, fully-functional, grown-up human again. Right now you’re just kind of a mess. 

“I know there’s the germ thing,” you blurt out, without looking at Spencer. “But —” 

His laugh sounds crackly and nervous, but relieved, like maybe he’d been holding his breath. “Come here.” 

You give him a grateful smile as you scoot closer to each other, and apparently you’d been so worried about your own swollen eyes earlier that you hadn’t noticed the fatigue evident in every drawn, wan line of his face. 

Not that he isn’t still the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. 

You duck tentatively under Spencer’s arm, and it’s not like you’re _cuddling_ , exactly, because there’s still an inch or so of space between your hips and legs… but the bony plane of his chest, between collarbone and heart, makes a surprisingly perfect pillow. You pull the sleeves of your sweater over your hands, tucking them under your chin, curling up.

The moment feels delicate, like a soap bubble that you could burst if you simply breathe too loudly, and you hold yourself stiffly, at first, not wanting to move any closer for fear of pushing a boundary. It feels like you’re _glowing_ at the points where your bodies are touching; the warm weight of his arm feels like bright spring sunshine across your upper back. His palm on the round of your shoulder is thawing away the last chilly bits of your self-consciousness. 

When the commercial break starts, Spencer says, “Do you ever think about how little physical contact the average single adult experiences on a regular basis?” His voice is quiet and almost sheepish. 

You smile. “Yeah, I’ve considered it.” 

“Especially when we live away from our families,” Spencer says wistfully. 

You can feel the vibration of his words in his chest. You shift, making yourself more comfortable, feeling dazed and dumb with his proximity.

“The monkeys. I feel like — you know?” 

“Harlow. I know exactly what you mean.”

Trust him to get that from your ridiculously vague mumbling. 

“Except they were babies,” you add. 

“The emotional benefits of physical touch don’t decrease just because we get older,” he says softly. “It’s just that the fear of judgement makes it difficult to be honest.”

There’s silence for a minute as the show starts again, and David Attenborough says something about sloths. Spencer’s thumb strokes your shoulder gently, back and forth, soothing. It’s hypnotic, and the tension drains from your muscles, leaving you more relaxed than you’ve felt in a long time. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. 

You swallow hard. “For what?” 

“Being honest.” 

There’s no reason for your eyes to be stinging like this, but they are. “I should be thanking you.”

“Nothing to thank me for. This is… really nice.” 

“Yeah. It really is.” 

He’s quiet again. 

Spencer smells like vanilla and old books — although the latter might just be your imagination, something to do with the power of mental association — Spencer could probably explain the science behind that. Your brain has them inextricably linked, though. You’ve caught hints of that smell before, but never up close like this. 

The softness of the worn knit of his cardigan makes you want to rub your cheek against it like a cat. His arm, skinny as it may be, feels like protection — like you’re _safe_ here. 

After the brutal violence of the case and the emotional turbulence of the day, this quiet, golden moment is even more breathtakingly peaceful by contrast. It doesn’t feel real. 

It’s too good to last. This isn’t _yours_. It’s not going to last, no matter how right it feels, and your chest already aches with the idea of letting him go. 

You try to appreciate it while you can, to remember every sensation, but your body is leaden, exhausted down to the bone, completely drained of whatever adrenaline-stubbornness-caffeine combination was keeping you running until now. Spencer’s thumb rubs invisible circles on your shoulder, and he breathes evenly, and you feel safe. 

You’re asleep before the next commercial break. 

A distant car alarm wakes you, sometime later. In the handful of seconds before it’s turned off, you come to without opening your eyes, trying to remember where you are and who you’re with. The smell of vanilla makes you relax instinctively, before you can process why. 

Spencer has all but melted against you in his sleep, soft and boneless. He’s got both arms around you now, holding you close, his breath tickling your forehead. Then he stirs, and you can feel the moment _he_ realizes where he is, because his muscles go tense as he freezes. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs hoarsely. He’s barely audible over the infomercial voices coming from the TV. “I didn’t mean to — sorry. I’ll go.” 

And before you can think better of it, you whisper, “Don’t.” 

He’s still frozen, and silent for a second that feels like an eternity. “You mean —”

“I don’t want you to leave. Stay.” 

Honesty seems to be your default setting tonight, and anyway, you can tell without looking at a clock that it’s long past midnight, well into the early-morning hours where boundaries and reservations and reality don’t seem to follow their usual laws. You can’t lie to him (or to yourself) right now. 

Spencer’s voice cracks as he says, “Okay. I’ll just — let me get the light.”

You don’t open your eyes as he slips away. This all seems like a dream, and the sharp bright lamp light might make it dissolve around you. You might wake up. 

The TV goes quiet, and when you tug at the hotel comforter, sliding between cool sheets fully clothed, the barely-there rasp of moving fabric sounds loud in its absence. 

Spencer turns off the lamp, and you open your eyes. You can just see his shape as he navigates the dark room, negative space on a charcoal backdrop, but as your vision adjusts, you can see a faint suggestion of his features in the blue-black. 

You feel it, though, when his weight makes the springs of the old mattress dip. You’d expected him to lie on his back again, but instead his face is just inches from yours when his cheek comes to rest on the pillow. You feel the way he’s breathing, quick and shallow and nervous. You feel your heart kick in your ribs, thudding so loud he must be able to hear it. 

He reaches out slowly, hooking an arm around your ribs, and pauses with just the very tips of his spidery fingers touching your back, between your shoulder blades: five soft points of contact that you feel so intensely they might as well be electrode pads connecting you to a defibrillator. 

This is crossing a line, and you both know it. 

It’s not a sexual touch, it’s not _that_ sort of thrill going through you, but something about this feels profoundly _intimate_. That intimacy is almost more shocking than lust might’ve been, and it’s much more dangerous. It’s the sort of closeness you don’t walk away from unscathed. 

Spencer’s fingers flutter, butterfly-wing delicate, like one or the other of you might be trembling. 

“Are you sure this is okay?” he whispers. 

“Yes.” 

Maybe you’re both trembling. 

His palm comes to rest on your back, easing you closer, and you shift, settle, readjust. He pulls back and tilts his head just long enough to brush his lips over your temple, soft and sweet, before tucking you neatly under his chin, where you fit like you were meant to be there, with your nose nudging at the gap between his collar and the delicate skin of his throat.

“Sweet dreams,” he whispers, sounding just as awed as you feel. 

“Sweet dreams, Spencer.” 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please let me know?? I'd love to hear what you think! 
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr, for more fic- and fandom-related flailing: @there-must-be-a-lock


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